


Sick of Every Last Thing

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, M/M, Patient Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-19 13:31:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: It's all in the title.





	Sick of Every Last Thing

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the beginning of Albion and the Woodsman by Glenmore, one of my top ten favorite stories on AO3. It's my go to story when I'm feeling 'sick of every last thing,' as I have been this past week. Read it, please and give kudos and a comment if you've a mind to. It's a beautiful, uplifting story.

The tells were all there. The thud of the black door, the angry footsteps on the stairs, and the pause and audible huff on the landing outside the kitchen door. There was no need for Sherlock to glance up from his microscope; perhaps it would be much better for both of them if he didn’t.

The sociopath within him struggled for dominance for just a second or two, but his heart tossed it aside, saving it as he’d promised, for the Work only. His doctor would not accept it anyway, and ignoring John for any length of time was impossible. Silently removing his equipment to the when not in use designated corner of the kitchen, he dared a sidelong glance at John when the tea kettle landed with a heavy hand. 

Definitely angry.

John’s coat landed with a swoosh on the back of his fireplace chair, then slid to the floor, where it lay in a sad, disgruntled heap. Sherlock scooped up coat as he passed by John and continued on to hang it on the peg on the back of the door.

Stepping out onto the landing, Sherlock neared the kitchen door, listening intently to John’s mutterings.

“I’m so sick of every last thing. Fuck it all to hell and back. Christ, I’m so..”

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. “Tired? Exhausted? Knackered?”

John turned to look at him, every muscle in his small, compact body strained to the maximum effort to control.

“John.”

“Don’t.”

“John,” he said, using the voice that always worked. 

“Don’t.use.that.voice. Not now.”

Until now. “Angry, as well, I know.” He waved his hands as a gesture to encompass the kitchen. “Your anger fills the room.”

“Don’t deduce me, Sherlock, I’m not in the mood.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“Christ, Sherlock, just leave me alone. Let me be angry for a bit.”

John’s maim or kill smile, the one with which Sherlock was very well acquainted, flashed across his face, replaced just as quickly by a sadder, apologetic one, but no less angry.

“I can’t do that, John, you know that.” 

“Please, Sherlock.”

“No, John.”

“Why not? Why can’t you, why can’t I-”

Sherlock closed the distance between them, pulling John into his arms and against his chest, one hand cradling the back of his head. 

“It’s not healthy for you to be so angry that you don’t know why you’re angry. And because I love you.”

John inhaled deeply, the anger slowly leaving his body as he exhaled. 

“Whatever it is that has angered you, we can talk about it. We have always been able to talk to each other about how we feel.”

“Not always,” John muttered against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“No, but we do now.”

Feeling the tremors coursing through John’s body, Sherlock held him tighter. “It’s okay. We’ll work it out together. Always together.”

“I don’t know why I’m angry, Sherlock, I don’t know how I feel right now.” 

When John’s arms circled around his waist, Sherlock knew they would be all right. 

“Tea, John?”

“Yes, please. Do we have any biscuits? Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits?”

“Yes, and I think we have a jar of that special jam.”

“Perfect.”

Sherlock lifted John’s head with a finger beneath his chin. Dropping a kiss to his mouth. “Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“John, never argue with a genius. You are perfect for me.”

“All right.”


End file.
